


We All Want to Change the World

by satb31



Series: 1,000 Follower Giveaway Fics [9]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anti-War Movement, M/M, Protests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:43:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1430620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satb31/pseuds/satb31
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the Vietnam era, Courfeyrac is realizing his attraction to Combeferre — particularly after a rally goes completely wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We All Want to Change the World

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the same universe as [You Say You Want a Revolution](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1147909/chapters/2325745)\-- with apologies to my co-author!

It was the night before the protest — a protest that was predicted to be the biggest ever — and Combeferre and Courfeyrac were staggering home to their apartment.

They were roommates, and to outsiders they seemed like an odd couple, but it was a pairing that had been made possible by their mutual friendship with Enjolras. Combeferre was Enjolras’ oldest friend — they had grown up together, and were the type of friends who couldn’t imagine not going to the same university. As freshmen the two of them had lived together — but they ended up spending most of their time arguing about everything imaginable, from the draft to whose turn it was to take out the trash. That same year Courfeyrac wandered into their lives — first as someone Enjolras would argue with in class, and then eventually as a third participant in their weekly trips to the Musain — so Courfeyrac and Enjolras tried living together, but that was equally fractious. So among the three of them it was determined that Enjolras was the kind of person who needed to live alone, so Combeferre and Courfeyrac decided to move in together.

What started as a marriage of convenience, however, had over the past three years become one of affection, even if they had never been romantic partners. Courfeyrac, for his part, was leading the charge in the nascent sexual revolution — his good looks and charm attracted both men and women to him, and he took full advantage, often bringing his lovers back to the apartment for noisy romps in his tiny bedroom. When he would emerge the next morning, eyes half-closed and his hair a tangled mess, Combeferre would give him a stern look — and casually hand him a cup of coffee, asking no questions.

And Courfeyrac would smirk back at him, knowing that because of the paper thin walls of their apartment his roommate had heard everything that had transpired the previous night.

In contrast, Combeferre seemed almost prudish, a relic of the 1950s who may have indulged in drinking or weed but never in sex, preferring to partner with his books or his ideas. When he’d started dating Joly earlier in the semester, Courfeyrac was shocked — he didn’t even realize Combeferre preferred men — but afterwards he started to see Combeferre in a new light. He’d never considered Combeferre a sexual being in the slightest.

But lately — even as Combeferre was careful to spend his nights at Joly’s apartment, knowing how thin the walls were at his own — Courfeyrac couldn’t stop considering Combeferre as a sexual being.

It didn’t help that they were spending more and more time together as the leadership of Les Amis, the student activist group they had founded earlier that year. As the three friends worked to organize rallies and sit-ins, they found themselves at the Musain more often than they were at home, where they would drink and smoke and argue. And Combeferre was a master debater — always armed with facts, his nostrils flaring and his eyes narrowing as he condemned the government’s Vietnam policy. Their shared loyalty was to the cause and to Enjolras — and increasingly, to each other.

It also didn’t help that Courfeyrac was already noticing fissures beginning to develop between Joly and Combeferre. That night Combeferre had been off in the corner, blowing off his studies to work on his speech — much to the obvious consternation of Joly, who was worried about his devotion to the cause overshadowing his studies. As Combeferre and Enjolras were coming to the realization that the best any way to end this war was through more than speeches and idle talk — Joly hesitated, as was his way, which he knew frustrated and angered Combeferre.

Courfeyrac agreed with his two best friends — he even went further than either of them, espousing the firm belief that violence may be the only way to end the war. To that end he had spent the evening in the backroom of the bar crafting fiery tirades for himself and for Enjolras — tirades against both the school administration and the entirety of the United States government. He had been working with an innocent-looking freshman named Prouvaire — who had helped him write his own speech and Enjolras’s, the completion of which they celebrated by having sex against the wall. 

But afterwards, as he and Prouvaire giggled their way through a joint and an entire bowl of peanuts, Courfeyrac had a fleeting thought about what it would be like to take Combeferre the same way.

As they walked out of the bar that night at closing time, both men were staggering — Combeferre had consumed more drinks than usual, while Courfeyrac was stoned on both pot and post-coital bliss. “Ready to change the world?” Combeferre asked Courfeyrac as they made their way back to their apartment, his words slurring slightly as he supported Courfeyrac with his free arm.

“Fuck, I’m ready for anything,” Courfeyrac boasted. “I feel like I could take on the whole fucking Vietnamese army right now.” Maybe it was the pot, or maybe it was Combeferre’s gentle hand on his back — but Courfeyrac felt emboldened. “I still have a little left after tonight if you want to give it a go. I can’t make any promises — but for you I can try—” Courfeyrac teased.

Combeferre shook his head firmly. “Not the night before a protest. I’m not an idiot. Someone needs to be alert to make sure Enjolras doesn’t get himself killed.” he said sternly, pushing Courfeyrac away. “Besides, you know I’m with Joly now,” he reminded his roommate, flushing slightly as he said the words.

Courfeyrac ducked his head. “Sorry, sorry,” he apologized. “So will the good doctor be joining us tomorrow?” he asked tentatively.

Combeferre glared at him. “Yes,” he said briskly, his answer betraying a frustration with Joly’s nerves. “At least he said he would be there,” he added, a note of uncertainty creeping into his voice.

Courfeyrac just nodded silently.

Clearly the fissure was getting bigger.

**

There was a brisk wind blowing through the quad the next day, whipping through their handmade signs and banners. The crowd was significantly larger than it had been at their last protest, leaving Courfeyrac grinning maniacally at the sight of so many enraged students shouting and chanting. Combeferre wrinkled his forehead in concern, but as students continued to filter in, a ghost of a smile crossed his face as well.

As Enjolras got up to speak, Courfeyrac scanned the crowd. He spotted Joly close to the front, his eyes darting around the quad warily, and beside him stood Prouvaire, who was beaming, his longish hair blowing in his face. He waved at Courfeyrac, who winked at him in return, briefly considering another adventure in the Musain with the young freshman.

He was still thinking about Prouvaire when Enjolras came over to him, his speech complete and the crowd roaring, and poked him in the ribs. “You’re up after Combeferre,” he reminded Courfeyrac.

 “I got this,” Courfeyrac reassured Enjolras, who nodded sagely as he too scanned the crowd — Courfeyrac assumed he was probably looking for that dark-haired artist he’d been hanging around with lately.

After Combeferre stopped speaking, receiving a smattering of applause for his typically calm, reasoned speech, Courfeyrac strode up to the microphone confidently, patting Combeferre on the back and shaking his hand.

The speech he and Prouvaire had co-written was inflammatory — he knew it was when they’d put it together. But his delivery was even more impassioned than usual, as he channeled all of his energy into denouncing the war with prose that was laced with angry epithets and callbacks.

And the crowd started getting louder — which spurred Courfeyrac on. “Even here on campus, we’re not free,” Courfeyrac shouted, pointing to the significant number of police officers and campus security surrounding the students. “They bring these pigs in here, with their fucking machine guns, like we’re some Vietnamese village they want to annihilate. Fuck them. Fuck them all!” he screamed, raising both of his middle fingers. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Enjolras pumping his fist and Combeferre nodding his approval.

Just then shouts of “Kill the pigs!” echoed through the quad, and the crowd started to push toward the lines of policemen surrounding the rally. Enjolras rushed down the stairs and into the melee, his blond hair streaming behind him as he advanced on the line of police. Courfeyrac and Combeferre exchanged a quick glance, then followed their leader into the crowd.

Students were jostling each other, screaming epithets and throwing anything they could find at the cops, who were advancing on the students with nightsticks. “Where’s Enjolras?” Combeferre shouted over his shoulder to Courfeyrac, who threw up his hands.

They continued to push their way through the crowd until they both finally spotted Enjolras, his face bloodied and contorted with pain, who was struggling against the iron grip of a cop who was beating him with a nightstick. “Stop!” Combeferre shouted, blinded with rage at the sight of his oldest friend in pain. “Get off of him!” he screamed, going after the police officer with his fists in the air.

“Combeferre! No!” Courfeyrac shouted. Instinctively he grabbed Combeferre from behind before he could reach the officer, pinning his arms behind his back. Combeferre was squirming and flailing, trying to resist, but he was no match for Courfeyrac’s strength. “Let go of me,” Combeferre implored. “Goddamn those fucking pigs! They can’t fucking do this!”

“No fucking way,” Courfeyrac hissed in his ear protectively. “I am not letting you get the shit beaten out of you.” As he spoke, Courfeyrac noticed a white cloud wafting from the other side of the quad. “Fuck, that’s tear gas,” Courfeyrac exclaimed. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” He pulled the collar of his t-shirt over his nose and steered a staggering, swearing Combeferre away from the protest — and back toward home.

**

When they got back to the apartment Courfeyrac practically shoved Combeferre inside. “Jesus, Combeferre, what the fuck were you thinking?” His heart was racing — because of the rally, because of the tear gas — and because of his desire to protect Combeferre.

 Combeferre was equally livid, pacing around the living room. “What the fuck was I thinking? What the fuck were they thinking? Attacking students? Tear gas? When did we start going to school in a fucking war zone?” he asked, his voice raised in anger.

 Courfeyrac planted himself in front of Combeferre, placing his hands on his shoulders to stop him from pacing. “And getting your ass thrown in jail was going to help matters — how, exactly?” he asked. Courfeyrac studied Combeferre’s face, noticing blood streaming out of Combeferre’s nose. “Ferre, you’re bleeding,” he exclaimed.

Combeferre put his hand up to touch his nose, then looked down to see crimson blood staining his palm. “Get me a towel,” he commanded his roommate as he tilted his head back.

Courfeyrac went to fetch an ancient white towel out of the bathroom. “Enjolras can take care of himself, you know. He doesn’t need you running to his rescue,” Courfeyrac remarked as he returned and handed him the towel.

 Combeferre pressed the cloth to his nose to staunch the bleeding. “That’s the thing, Courfeyrac — he can’t take care of himself. He does stupid things, he’s always done stupid things,” he said, his voice muffled through the cloth.

 “True enough,” Courfeyrac admitted, watching his roommate administer first aid to himself.

Combeferre pulled the bloodstained towel away from his face, the bleeding having ceased. “But goddamn it, Courfeyrac — this shit isn’t supposed to happen. Not here.”

Courfeyrac sighed sympathetically. “Look, maybe the rallies aren’t the answer. We can scream until we’re blue in the face but nothing’s going to change this way — it’s pretty fucking obvious now. But we can’t do a damn thing if we’re both in jail, you know?” Courfeyrac said, reaching up to touch Combeferre’s face for a moment, then withdrawing his hand. “Here, let’s get you cleaned up. Enjolras wanted us all at the Musain, right? For a debrief?”

 “I’m sure he’ll be wondering where we are,” Combeferre said, walking toward the bathroom, stripping off his stained t-shirt as he went. For a moment Courfeyrac forgot about the war and the botched rally as he took in the sight of his roommate’s bare chest — Combeferre almost never disrobed in front of anyone.

 “Enjolras can wait,” Courfeyrac replied, wandering into the bathroom, where Combeferre was splashing water on his face. “But what about Joly?” he asked, trying to sound casual as he handed Combeferre a towel.

Combeferre rubbed his face — he hadn’t even mentioned his boyfriend since they had returned. “I’m sure Joly’s fine,” he said reassuringly. “I’m not sure he understands any of this anyway. Not like we do,” he said, gazing at Courfeyrac for a long moment.

“Not like we do,” Courfeyrac repeated, swallowing hard — his emotions in as much turmoil as the quad had been an hour ago. There was nothing he wanted more right now than to take the two steps toward Combeferre and kiss his damp face and tell him that together they would change the world.

But there was the debrief, and there was Enjolras.

And there was Joly.

So Combeferre turned back to the sink, and Courfeyrac went back to the living room, where he paced until Combeferre returned in a clean shirt, his long hair combed and his beard smoothed.

 “Ready to change the world?” Combeferre asked him brightly.

“Fuck, I’m ready for anything,” Courfeyrac said, his mask of bravado returned — knowing that with Combeferre beside him, it was indeed the truth.


End file.
